


Cross Purposes

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [17]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (Such hurt much comfort), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batdad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Me: /levitates/, Non-Consensual Drug Use, The floor is bad dad Bruce, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24470353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Tim falls into enemy hands.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1353415
Comments: 47
Kudos: 402





	Cross Purposes

**Author's Note:**

> *takes a long draft of tea* Why, hello there! Welcome back to another Tim and Bruce fic. I'm sorry that it has taken me this long to hammer out another one of these bad boys, but here we are. :D I honestly don't know if I was able to fix all the tonal problems in this (It was pretty rife with 'em...), but I figure this is as good as it's gonna be.
> 
> Hope you all have been doing well these past few months. <3

Usually, Tim is better under these circumstances. He's certain this isn't his first time waking up in an unknown location, but there are choice elements about this experience that have been making him uneasy.

Tim flexes his fingers, watching the I.V. needle move beneath his skin. "It will help," an older man explained earlier while putting it in. A humanely sad look was on his face that Tim is still thrown by. It's stupid for him to even consider accepting the sympathy (let alone actually crave it) because everyone here is an enemy. Tim is all too aware of that when he tries to move his arms again. It's a fruitless exercise, the bindings around his forearms remind him. There are matching ones around his calves, another larger one around his torso, and it all has the desired effect of making him so immobile that he can't even build up enough momentum to tip the chair he's in.

So, this one activity is all he has.

Tim flexes his fingers again, straining the bones in an attempt to maneuver the needle edge out. Naturally, it's been taped down, but if he could just do this one thing…

"Tim…" the person across from him sighs. It's a disconsolate kind of sound, like the man actually cares about Tim's well-being. Of course, Tim knows that's a far cry from the truth.

There's always a method to getting information, usually divided into two camps: one being outright torture, the other being mental manipulation. Tim suspects he'll be getting a taste of the former sooner or later, and frankly? He'd prefer it to the perfidious nice guy routine. All it does is leave Tim stuck in a void of waiting for the light to switch, for the hero to become the villain, because that's the nature of these things.

Of most things, really.

There's only one person who isn't like that, and something in Tim's chest is screaming that he has to protect them—no matter the cost.

And to do that, he has. To. Get. Out.

Tim knows he's making some semblance of headway when he feels a new pain beneath his skin, can see the start of bruising bubble up like splatter paint, and he thinks that another minute should do the trick. But then, the needle pricks something—a nerve, perhaps—that spurs a wince from him, betrays his discomfort, and all of his hard work is undone because—

"Tim," the man repeats, more sternly this time. Before Tim's even fully aware of it, footsteps have clipped through his eardrums, crossed the space, and there's the weight of a Kevlar-laden hand over his own. Tim hates that the touch is gentle.

"Stop. You're going to hurt yourself."

Tim doesn't look up to face the person, gaze fixed decidedly on his own lap, but he doesn't test the I.V. again—not as long as the man's hand is there. He knows that he has to do something, though: Tim's starting to feel the onset of panic, a small tinge of it at the back of his neck same as claustrophobia, like even the walls have eyes.

But there's only one pair of eyes on him. Just the one. It might as well be thousands, however, as Tim can feel them sharpen on him: From this distance, there's no way for Tim to hide the fact he's shivering.

"You should've said something," the man says quietly. There's a rustle of fabric, the brush of it against the concrete floor, before something heavy is wrapped around Tim's shoulders, like a cloak or a cape. Whatever it is, it does help a bit but only as a palliative measure.

Tim's certain whatever cocktail of drugs they have him on are the reason for that. They must be freshly made, because they're definitely not body temperature. It feels glacial under his skin.

"What's in this?" Tim demands through a shudder, bending his hand back to indicate the I.V.

"…Antidote," the reply comes.

Tim would roll his eyes if he weren't already busy trying not to be sick. The floor's started to swim beneath him, a knot rising in his throat, and it feels like his trachea's shrunk down to the size of a straw, lots of breaths with little relief.

"It'll take a little while to kick in, but it should solve whatever you're feeling," the man explains as he finishes rearranging the rest of the fabric, attempting to make it lay naturally in spite of the bindings. A palm enters Tim's line of sight then, likely trying to take his temperature, but Tim turns his head away.

"Don't," the teen snaps.

"Don't what?"

_Don't be nice to me. Don't be fake._

Tim doesn't say either of those things. He wants to. But more importantly, he knows that he's already said too much. Replying is as good as acknowledging that there's a connection, a camaraderie, no matter how shallow. Tim remembers someone teaching him that, but…

He finds that he can't remember who.

The man in front of him has started talking again at some point, so Tim chooses to listen rather than follow that dangerous thought.

"…know you're probably very confused," the man says. "I'd rather let you rest and sleep this off, but I'm afraid it can't wait. I need to know something, and you're the only one who can help."

Tim remains adamant, eyes glued to a spot on the wall. It's cragged and uneven like they're in some tunnel underground, somewhere no one could hear him scream, and Tim reminds himself that that doesn't bother him. He knows what this is, what these people want from him, and it doesn't change anything.

Tim's loyal.

If there's one thing that's true about him, one thing that binds people to him, it's that attribute. Maybe even that attribute alone, and he won't give it up.

He can't.

But the man in front of him calls his name then, soft, like he actually cares, and he starts to thumb the side of Tim's hand. "There's someone out there who's going to hurt a lot of people," he explains. "You don't remember right now, but they've already hurt you, too. And I want to make sure they don't hurt anyone else."

Tim is overcome with the urge to rip his hand away. It's almost like the touch is burning straight through the limb and down into his stomach, and that can't be right.

Tim was freezing just a minute ago…

"Someone has to stop them," the man's continued speaking. "That's why I need you to be honest with me."

There's another hand on Tim's shoulder now, firm yet comforting in a way that Tim wants to detest but can't bring himself to. Tim's starting to think that he needs the comfort; panic is shooting through him and he can't pinpoint a reason why.

All he knows is that he wants to break away, wants to stop the man from talking, because there's this vague feeling that Tim won't be able to say no to whatever this person wants, some type of knee-jerk response that he doesn't remember having trained into him.

He thinks it's the meds. He thinks it's a lot of things.

"What's in this?" Tim demands again, only slightly desperate.

"I need you to help me help you," the man dodges, so tender in tone that Tim thinks he would die for him in an instant. The revelation is a shock. He's trying to remember where this second loyalty came from, because Tim only serves one person. No one else. They're all he has to belong to, and yet, that edifice of devotion is collapsing into nothingness, as Tim can't stifle this feeling that…he could belong _here_ too.

Tim shudders an inhale.

He really wants to know what drugs these are.

It's doubtful that Tim will be finding that out anytime soon, so Tim decides to screw it and rattles the I.V. line again. It's a warning call, a "Stay away," but the man just tightens his hold on Tim's hand a fraction, the way you do with a small child whose attention you need.

"Tim," he says, and Tim's head snaps forward again—still trained on his lap but flooded with the desire to obey. Like it's magic. A spell. Like this presence is demiurgic and demands respect.

It's terrifying.

And then, the man proceeds to give the only command that Tim can't follow.

"I need you to tell me their name."

…

The words do something.

Tim's not sure what, but it's an instantaneous thing, like hot aluminum thrown into ice water, an audible crack.

Within a moment, the floor's dipped like gravity in space-time, and Tim snaps his eyes closed, rictus one of determination fringed with a hot pain. Oxygen must have somehow turned liquid, because all of a sudden, Tim can't get any air in at all. It's as if his own body is determined to kill him rather than talk, and he would question why that is if it weren't for the fact that all of his physical symptoms have increased twofold. There's even a millisecond when Tim's hearing goes and he's horrified that he's passed out.

The person in front of him hasn't moved, though, so…maybe he's fine?

"Tim?"

Tim swallows hard. OK, maybe he actually will pass out.

"Tim, look at me."

A hand cups his chin, tilting his face forward to look the man in the eye. It's something Tim's been actively avoiding. (It's easier to loathe someone when you can conjure your own image of them.) The delusion he's been fabricating instantly crumbles when he sees the man's face. There's a mask laying fallow behind his head, revealing tired, blue eyes and a mosaic of stern features that is mitigated by sympathy.

He seems kind.

The observation makes Tim's stomach drop.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the man explains, perhaps mistaking Tim's sudden pallor for fear. "But I need you to tell me who's behind this."

Tim stares, struggling to think. His mind is only drawing up one real answer, but this man has been nice to him, and it's so tempting to just _say it_ , because Tim knows the conversation could be over with the utterance of a two-syllable name. But the lack of air, the constricting of his throat, reminds him that he—

"I can't," Tim spits out, voice far thinner than what could be considered healthy. The air re-condenses at the answer, enough that Tim can actually get an inhale in, and the spots sparking in his eyes twirl back into a full plane of view.

As much as the answer seems to have been what his mind needed, he knows it's not what someone else wanted.

Tim's expecting the situation to change here because of that, go the full 180 like these things always do. But he's surprised again when the man's hand disappears from his chin and reappears on the back of his neck, fingers working through the hair there. Tim idly wonders if there isn't a pressure point back there, because the motions take the edge off his pain.

"OK," the person soothes. "OK."

The conversation dies out for a while, long enough that Tim is able to even his breathing back out. He feels like he should be self-conscious about having nearly fainted, but the man in front of him doesn't mention it, a familial, causal atmosphere about him. Tim's simultaneously grateful for that but also wishes it didn't exist. He's only been here for thirty minutes, an hour at the most, and the majority of that time has been spent sitting across from this one person that he doesn't recognize. There's no reason that he should feel so…familiar.

As if Tim's thoughts are audible, the man asks that exact question: "Do you remember who I am, Tim?"

 _Don't reply_ , the smarter part of him demands. But it's the exhausted part of him that answers.

"No."

"Think hard about it," the man presses, and against his better judgement, Tim makes eye contact again. He profiles the faded scars on the person's face, the black hair, large stature. Around 200 lbs, he'd guess.

"I don't…" Tim starts, shaking his head faintly. His memory continues to assert that this is a stranger, but something else—intuition, maybe, something sown into the fabric of his being—tells him otherwise.

"What _can_ you remember, Tim?"

The conversation jump makes Tim's head spin; his mind whites out at the question, wiped clean. He knows that he's playing mind games on an uneven court, but it's too late: His brain is already tracing a path back through his memories—any memory—only to find there's no path at all.

Just a name.

The unease must show on his face, as the man is quick to jump on it. "You can't remember how you met them, can you?"

(He can't.)

"You're protecting someone you hardly know, Tim."

That's not right. Tim doesn't believe it. Outright refuses to.

"But they definitely know you. And if they're really that good of a person, they shouldn't need protecting. Not at your expense."

Tim scurries to tune out what the person is saying, retreat back into a part of himself that's quiet and dead, but the man's voice keeps ringing.

"And do you know what you're shielding them from, Tim?"

(Tim doesn't.)

(He doesn't think he wants to.)

"They stole something from Pamela Isley. Something that they gave to you. What you're feeling—it's all because of that. And since then, they've killed multiple people. They're trying to frame you for it."

_No. No, that's not—_

"But I want to help you, Tim. I care about you, and that's why you need to give me a name."

"Stop…"

"You don't have to understand this, but know that I'm not the enemy here. They're causing a lot of harm with a vendetta against you. They're just _using_ you, Ti—"

"Stop it!"

The room falls silent.

Tim takes a moment to realign his thoughts. The man has moved away a step, giving him space, and Tim wants to… He wants to throw something. Break something. Do anything other than be stuck in a place where he can't hurt anything. Because that's what he wants: to make his immediate surroundings a reflection of how he feels on the inside.

There's only one person in memory who has ever cared about him, and even if it's only the illusion of care, even if it's fake and false like this person's saying, Tim still can't bear to lose it.

"Valencia."*

The man straightens audibly.

"That's their name," Tim clarifies. He knows what might happen to him when his lie is found out, but for now, this is the only solid thing Tim has.

He'd rather die than be alone.

"Valencia?" the man repeats, clearly dubious. Tim just nods and hopes his bluff pans out.

Tim expects for the person to leave the room now, waits for the door to click closed and the isolation to creep in, but instead, he finds that his hair is being ruffled softly. Tim's gaze jerks upward to meet an equally soft expression.

"It'll be OK, Tim," the man says, but the affirmation barely registers.

Tim's still lost in his touch.

Doesn't understand the kindness there.

Why is he being this way?

The contact fades when the person turns to leave, and there's that intuition again, deeper than DNA, that shouts he's made a mistake. It blazes like a wildfire when Tim sees the man's silhouette from behind. The person moves to pull his mask back over his head and—There! Tim doesn't know how, still has nothing tangible to go off of, but that sight is one he knows he's seen hundreds of times before.

"Wait!"

The figure stops, turns.

"That's… It's not…" Tim snaps his head down. His chest is clenching like his ribcage is shrinking around his lungs. " _What are you doing!?"_ his blood screams, deliquesces like pumice back into lava. " _You can't betray him!"_ His vision is spotting at the edges again, and he can hear his voice shaking when he chokes out, "I lied. That's not it."

The man stays quiet.

"It's… It's…"

Tim shakes his head.

He can't do it—can't give the name, but he also can't let this person leave without it. Instead, the appellation is left clawing at his insides, shredding him up when all he wants to do is let it go.

"It's alright, chum," the man finally says, patient. His voice cuts through the mental noise like a flare in the night, but it's wrong, not alright, not even a little bit, because—

"Armstrong."

Instantly, the talons in Tim's throat vanish, turn to a dust that continues to coat his tongue but does nothing more. His blood concentrates again, cools to reveal that he's still chilled from the I.V. and that his hand still aches from the fresh bruise. Tim coughs on the oxygen that's suddenly available.

Even more pressing is the odd ache in his chest, not a physical pain but a dull emptiness, like those two syllables are composite of all that he is as a person. There's no snatching them back now, though; Tim knows the truth is written all over his face: He's not lying.

A darkness sweeps the room in the next moment.

"…Armstrong," the man growls, and that snags Tim's attention, splits a cool path of sweat down his back.

It's that flip-switch that Tim's been waiting for.

That light to dark that screams Tim's just been horribly played.

"I should've known," the man continues, the timbre low enough that Tim's brain registers it as dangerous, not quite terrified but pretty close. Before he even has the chance to reply, though, there's the sound of a door slamming shut, and that's it.

Tim's alone.

Tim's eyes sweep the room still, realize the full gravity of what he's done.

He talked….

He shouldn't have _talked_.

Tim's gaze wanders back to the door as tries to remember where he went wrong. He was so sure he was loyal, was dead set on it, and now?

Now, he's given up the only person in the world he has. A traitor. And for what? Two minutes of undivided attention—and attention from the enemy, no less.

The man must've known that Tim was being dishonest about the name. That's the only explanation.

_Stupid!_

Tim recognized all the tactics. All the tricks. And yet, here he is, on the receiving end of being swindled out of his own life.

Eviscerated.

Like someone's let his blood and he's dumbfounded on the high of drowning in it—didn't even realize the knife had slipped in.

But that's not even the thing that stings the most. Not even close. What hurts worst is that Tim…

He actually _believed_ him.

When he said he cared.

Tim balls his fists and hangs his head.

He really thought he was smarter than that.

Tim really has no grasp of time from that point onward and honestly doesn't really care to. It's not like he has anywhere to go anymore, anything to do. Not after this. He doubts anyone will take him now.

But at some point, the atmosphere morphs into what he can only assume is another presence.

Tim doesn't even bother looking up. "I already told you everything," he says coldly.

There's a pause, a hesitation, before the figure starts to move forward.

"I don't know anything else," Tim rephrases to the floor, a bit sharper.

"I know."

The figure is still drawing closer, and all Tim wants in this moment is to be alone. Tim can't even have that, it seems. "Then why are you here?" Tim snaps bitterly, because really, it's not like he can fall any lower than where he is now.

The figure stills again at the vitriol, just far away enough that Tim can see the shine of his boots; it's the same person as before.

"…I thought you might need me. So I came."

Tim's eyebrows knit together, and he chances a look up in something that's half glare, half confusion. The man simply sighs like he's as tired as Tim is, a shockingly human gesture.

Tim's attention follows as the man kneels back down in front of him. "I called in Nightwing," the person says, smoothing the tape over Tim's I.V. He's still so careful with him, and Tim's trying to figure that out. It's not as if Tim's of any use anymore. "He headed out a while ago," the man says, "and I imagine he'll be able to handle things. I'll still call Gordon in the morning and update him myself on what happened."

Tim doesn't respond. Just watches.

There's still a big question on his mind.

"What're you planning to do with me?"

The man's focus drifts back up. He almost looks surprised by the query—a flash of it so brief that Tim questions if he didn't just imagine it. The expression quickly morphs into something wry and exhausted.

"Ideally?" the man asks, scratching at a patch of five o'clock shadow. "Re-enroll you in high school. But for tonight, I'd settle for putting you to bed and calling it a day."

Tim doesn't bother to mask his confusion at that.

The man just offers him a bittersweet smile, a real, genuine one that melts off a layer of skepticism. Something in Tim says he needs to remember that expression. Tells him it's rare and important. "You'll understand in the morning," the man half-explains. "I figure the worst of it's over now."

A lapse of silence passes by, the comfortable kind that Tim has to remind himself to be wary of.

Eventually, the man gestures to the bindings keeping Tim immobile. "If I take these off, will you stay still this time?"

Tim doesn't answer, but the man seems to take his silence as a promise, setting into a rhythm of undoing the loops. He saves Tim's wrists for last, and Tim really thinks that he could make a break for it when the last one slips off.

But then he remembers that there's nowhere else for him to go—no one else for him to go to.

Tim stays.

The man looks at him as if he can read the downward slope of Tim's shoulders, knows him well enough to register he's retreating back into bad thoughts. He runs a hand through Tim's hair then, and Tim can't hold in the question.

"Who am I to you?"

The man goes still.

Tim can see the thought on his face, that he's searching for the words. He would apologize for asking, but Tim is too wrung-out and empty to make an attempt. All he has the energy to do is wait for an answer. So, wait he does.

The man inhales after a brief interlude, unfreezes. He spends another moment straightening a tendril of Tim's hair back along the part.

"You're…a very dear friend," he says and leaves it at that.

Tim thinks that he doesn't react much to the declaration. He doesn't feel different, nothing rattling in the hollow shell of his chest.

At least, that's what Tim thought.

Gradually, the man's eyebrows crease, suffuse with a concern that can only be directed at Tim, and when a thumb sweeps under Tim's eyes, Tim realizes the skin there is damp. At that, a dull pang of sadness shivers through him, like the ring of a butane lighter in a dark space—a tinny echo followed by the warmth of a small, weak flame.

"…You're not lying?"

The man shakes his head; he looks sad.

"No."

Tim can feel the fact that he's crying now, can feel the heat of tears landing in his lap and the sting in his eyes. His fingers twitch from where they've remained on the armrests. He was told to stay still, and for some innate reason, Tim wants to follow that order, wants to do what was asked of him. But as it happens, what he wants and what he needs are diametrically opposed.

Eventually, he dares to swipe at his eyes, trying his best to look composed. He bets he makes a pretty picture right about now, looking off to the side in a meager attempt to save some dignity. It's hard to forget that he still has company.

"It's…It's OK," the man says, resting a hand on Tim's knee. He sounds horribly out of his depth, and Tim chokes out a laugh at that, half to chase away the awkwardness, half because there's something unexpectedly endearing about being comforted by someone who clearly doesn't know how. Tim wants to say something snarky, but when moves to try, he finds the man's face has brightened at the sound, like he loves Tim's laughter more than life itself, and something about that makes Tim's chest feel funny.

"Sorry," the person excuses lamely. "I'm not very good at these things."

"…You're fine," Tim manages after a while, clinging to the edges of the cape that's still wrapped around him. His head feels a little clearer, his mind quieter, and the person in front of him is starting to look even more familiar, in an odd, intrinsic way. Tim supposes he's going to have to get used to that. "So, um…what's your name?"

"Bruce."

"Bruce," Tim nods. He thinks he can remember that.

Bruce nods in tandem, and the conversation ebbs. Tim spends the time relearning the man's face, trying to pinpoint where he knows it from. He can detail the origin of the scar on the man's left temple (switchblade, Downtown) and another that cuts into his brow (bullet graze, East Side), but he can't remember _how_ he knows those things. They're all like little codes that he's slowly gaining the ciphers to.

"…Bruce?"

The man hums, and another second passes in which Tim tries to wrack his brain only to come up dry. He wants to know the truth.

"Really. Who am I to you?"

Bruce opens his mouth, looking thoughtful. It's an expression Tim feels he's seen thousands of times, and for some reason, he doubts he'll be getting a straight answer.

He's right, in the end; ultimately, the man simply pats Tim's knee with a sentimental look. "I should probably go see if Alfred's done setting up the med bay. Think you could use some sleep."

The man's moving back to a stand now, and Tim wants to say something, is suddenly missing him in a way one misses a time they've never lived through or a place they've never been. "Bruce?" he says again, more quickly this time.

Bruce looks back. His expression is calm, as if promising he'll only be gone for a moment, and his gaze is expectant. Tim shuffles under it.

"Um…Thanks," he says. Tim doesn't really know what exactly he's thanking the man for. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. It's the only thing he can think to say.

Bruce seems to understand the meaning somehow, anyway. His eyes lighten in a way Tim thinks they rarely do, and before he pulls his mask back over his face, before that light is eclipsed and hidden away, he says with a soft smile, "What are fathers for?"

**Author's Note:**

> *Matthew Valencia was Tim's voice actor in The New Batman Adventures.


End file.
